


nobody move (nobody get hurt)

by benshaws



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, Hot Dad, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benshaws/pseuds/benshaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire expects hot primary school teachers when he starts taking his younger sister to school, what he doesn't expect is Combeferre - a hot, recently single dad of one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is totally [Ellie's](http://rrevolutionaries.tumblr.com/) fault. She posted a fic a while ago about 'Combeferre with kids' (with a different premise) and before I even read it I was gushing about hot dad Combeferre and hot twenty something year old Grantaire who just wants to get in his pants. Then this happened by popular demand. 
> 
> For convenience it's set in England, because I have no idea about the French educational system like, _at all_. Rated explicit for later chapters, because marathon sex is totally gonna happen lbr.
> 
> However, this is unbeta'd so expect some errors and really lame grammar mistakes on my part. Love always to [Paige](http://anglosaxonmonk.tumblr.com/) who has to put up with me~~~

It takes weeks after Aimee’s first day of school for them to agree to Grantaire’s proposal. It wasn’t like he was asking for much, just to walk his sister to and from school, except they had hummed and harred around the issue, bringing up all the old haunts. 

“We don’t know if you could handle that responsibility, Grantaire,” and “She needs someone who’s a positive role model.” He never bothered to mention that he held down two jobs, or that he’d never demonstrated any behaviour in front of her that could be considered as _unhealthy_ (no curse words, no drinking, christ, even keeping up with his meds), because they wouldn’t listen to it. Grantaire’s word had never meant much in his parent’s eyes.

It was only Aimee herself which turned the tide in the debate. 

She’d overheard Grantaire asking for their permission (twenty five and he was still begging for his parent’s _fucking permission_ ) and proceeded to throw a fit at the answer (as always: no). After that she’d refused to go to school entirely unless _”Grantaire takes me”_ and Grantaire had tried not to look _too_ smug about the reaction. 

In the end, it got him what he wanted. 

His parents still made their lofty justifications for their decision, things like, “Well it would make it easier for me in the mornings” and “It is difficult trying to drop her off before work”, when really the defiant tantrum of a six year old had flipped the topic on it’s head.

It was everything he had ever hoped for. Generally, his parents had been less than willing to let Grantaire spend time with his sister. Hell, Grantaire hadn’t even _known_ he had a sister for the first four years of her life. Grantaire was the family embarrassment - they liked it best if he stayed away, and Grantaire liked it too, if only because he didn’t have to see their judgemental gazes of disappoint. Then, one day Jehan had bumped into his parents in the supermarket, and the secret of his younger sister had been uncovered.

She looked just like Grantaire. With Grantaire’s same unruly black hair (the colouring, from their father, the texture, from their mother), the same light eyes, the same smile, although she was definitely cuter than Grantaire could ever be. By the time he met her she was a child raging war on the world and they’d fallen in love with one another, instantly. Except his parents only saw what Grantaire _had_ been and because of that trying to spend time with his only sibling was as easy and as pleasant as pulling teeth.

Now, he properly had the chance to get to know her - and spoil her rotten. The walk from his parent’s house to the school wasn’t long, about twenty minutes, or a half an hour drive if it was raining, but Grantaire drew it out as long as possible. He got to the house extra early in the mornings to help her get ready, asking her about her work and sitting down to watch cartoons before they left if they had the time. Then they walked to school, chatting about whatever, Grantaire making up stories to keep her occupied and her adding her own parts in with _”No, the rabbit should be named Denver. Denver is a place in America, you know.”_

Sometimes he would give her a piggy back that lasted the entire walk to the school, leaving his back aching for the rest of the day. Totally worth it.

He’d run around with her in the playground until the bell rang - Her teaching him how to play hopscotch and Grantaire pretending to be a dinosaur, chasing her around and pulling faces as she screamed her rebellion. She introduced him to her friends, insistently and with her hand firmly in his, tugging him over to a girl with long ginger hair and calling her Alice, and another who usually dressed in blue called Skye, and kid after kid after kid with judgemental parent after judgemental parent after judgemental parent. Until he was chasing them around the playground, too, grabbing hold of Sam and hoisting him up to pretend to devour his stomach as his mother looked petrified across the concrete, calling her son back as soon as he had freed him. 

It wasn’t that Grantaire wasn’t a nice guy, he just didn’t particularly look like _child-friendly material_. His arms were an explosion of colour, set off against a wardrobe that primarily existed of black (sometimes grey, if he was feeling adventurous). Tattoos spiralled down his arms and past even his wrists, ending at the backs of his hands, a collection he’d slowly built up over the years. He wore heavy combat boots, band shirts and old faded black hoodies layered up underneath a worn leather jacket. He could have been mother-fucking-Teresa and he would still get judged for his wardrobe, so Grantaire genuinely didn’t give a fuck. The only thing he didn’t want was a call from the police trying to label him as some sort of child molester just because he wears black skinny jeans and ratty Nirvana tops.

More often than not Aimee introduced Grantaire as “Her awesome brother,” which really felt like all the praise he would ever need.

After school they’d dawdle as long as possible, Grantaire meeting her in the playground with ice cream, or books, or a magazine she’d wanted then wandering back to the house. She’d excitedly tell him about her day and what activities they’d got up to - often pulling pieces of paper out of her bag to wave at him. Of course, he’d tell her what ever she had made that day looked brilliant, even if her enthusiastic scribbles were catastrophically _shit_ , because you don’t exactly need constructive criticism when you’re six. Sometimes she had friends with her, who were staying over for tea, which always led to Grantaire having to awkwardly discuss the safety of the child with the parent - “ _Yes_ Mrs Tucker, I’ll make sure Stacy gets there safely.” Most of the time it was just them. 

The less pleasant part was returning Aimee to their parents, mainly because his mother would just _look_ at him as though she was waiting for the day where they wouldn’t come home, and she’d be getting a phonecall which would tell her Aimee had fallen under a moving vehicle instead. Grantaire smiled as placidly as he could, usually meeting his parent’s in the hallway if they weren’t working, while Aimee bounced between the two, running words into one another as she tried to recall the _bestmostawesomething_ of her day. Grantaire couldn’t tell if she just didn’t notice the tangible tension between Grantaire and their parents, or if she was set on ignoring it. They smiled tight at one another before Grantaire left, keeping coldly and carefully to the same patterns of conversation - “How are you?” “Fine. What about you?” “We’re great, thanks, Grantaire.”

One day Jehan had told him, “I’m sure your parents still love you,” back when things were a lot more unsteady around the edges and Grantaire could barely remember what he had done the previous day. Except there had been a string of doubt run through Jehan’s words, a product of Jehan’s equally shitty relationship with his equally shitty and equally rich parents, that had just made it sound like a lie. It didn’t matter - Grantaire would have never believed him anyway. Sometimes parents are just not made to be good to their children, by chance, or accident, or by personality, and the kids are made to be just as bad as return. Grantaire, Jehan and Eponine were all examples of that, except Eponine had summed up the way to deal with it best of all - “Fuck ‘em.”

So, Grantaire didn’t bother trying to win back their affections. It was an effort he wouldn’t get rewarded for. As long as they let him pick Aimee up every morning, from Monday through to Friday, and drop her home again, he was happy tolerating them.

-

When Grantaire had first told his friends about _finally_ getting to spend time with his sister, they had been at the pub Bahorel worked at after his shift, for their usual round of Friday night drinks and Bahorel had broken out into a grin and spoken one word, “MILFs.”

Jehan, of course, had punched him straight in the arm and sent him a pointed glare over his drink. 

Except, you know, the thought of hot mums doesn’t really do anything for you when you’re fucking _gay_ , only, Bahorel had been interested for his sake, which had of course led to the usual sexually filled Friday night bickering between Jehan and Bahorel of - “Jealous I’d fall in love and have little middle-upper class babies?” (Bahorel’s mouth stuck half between a leer and a grin, beer in his hand) and “Only in the most deluded of your dreams, Bahorel” (Jehan sighing prettily, chin propped up on his hands) - until Grantaire was telling them to _shut the fuck up_ because Eponine was still on tour and wasn’t there to do it for him.

The most Grantaire had vaguely hoped for was that Aimee had some smoking hot teacher he might be able to check out ever so often, but even that had only been in passing. To be honest, he hadn’t expected anything. After all, the playground was still extremely gender biased toward _mothers_ rather than fathers. In fact, there was only one other male who regularly dropped his child off at school, and oh, _oh_ did Grantaire want to press him against the nearest hard surface and fuck him senseless as soon as he had laid eyes on him. 

There are dads, and then there are _hot dads_ , and then there was _that fucker_. He looked like he’d transgressed the laws of physics and stepped straight out of a porn video named something along the lines of “My dad’s hot friend”, to the point where if he kept _that_ up for a few more years Grantaire was sure his son’s female friends would be asking, “Would you?” at 3am sleepovers because _fuck_ , who wouldn’t?

Grantaire wanted to climb that like he wanted to climb a long pole with the very object of his desire sat on the end of it. Which was a lot.

The man must have been in his thirties at least, maybe even nearing his forties, but _fuck_ was he attractive. He had salt and pepper hair, mouse-brown flecked with grey, and very rarely turned up at the playground with light stubble dusting his jaw in the same colour, that Grantaire could just imagine scraping against the inside of his thighs or feeling under his mouth when he kissed his jaw. He could imagine dragging his fingers through that hair, damp with sweat at his hair line, and wrecking it, making a mess of it where usually it was only out of place by the direction of the wind.

Occasionally he wore glasses though most of the time it seemed like he wore contacts and his eyes were a shade of brown, intense and measured. He was always dressed nicely, smart, simple yet clearly expensive, rarely with a hair out of place and always in neutral colours - dark blues and creams. Grantaire wanted to peel the clothes away from him, make buttons fly after dragging him over by his tie and trying to rip him out of his shirt, taste the muscle underneath. It was obvious he worked out, something about the way he held himself, and the defined line of his shoulder blades through his shirt when he wasn’t wearing his coat. Grantaire could bet on the fact that he was strong, at least, definitely stronger than Grantaire was, who’s work out was lifting crates at Tesco. 

Every day him and his son, who was the same age as Grantaire’s sister, were at the school by the time Aimee and himself arrived, even if they got there early. Just from looking at the man Grantaire could tell that _punctuality_ and _control_ were one of his top priorities, or at least, one of his defining traits. He seemed placid, comfortable in his body but also vaguely aware of his actions, and moved like a man confident in his own skin and with his own confidence. When one day his son fell over chasing another boy around before lessons started, crying and knees grazed, the man hadn’t so much as panicked, just quickly walked over to his son and helped him up, talking to him in a low voice while crouching down in front of him before leading him into the school where Grantaire presumed he would get him a plaster or something. When he had come back many of the mothers were a flurry of “Oh, is he alright?” and the man had replied with a similar calmness, smiling politely and nodding his head.

Grantaire wanted to rip that calmness from his skin, he wanted to send the man _wild_ with it, make him forget his name and more importantly forget _himself_. Except, there were other things to think about.

Did the guy have a wife, a girlfriend, even? Grantaire hadn’t seen him wearing a wedding or an engagement ring, but that didn’t mean much these days. Plenty of people Grantaire knew had vowed themselves off of marriage, instead settling down for the long run and being content in their relationships without some wedding vows to a God they didn’t believe in. Too many marriages ended in divorce, too many things got messy with a piece of paper tying their relationship together. Without marriage, things were easier. 

There were other problems. What if he wasn’t into guys? Grantaire had turned people with blowjobs, or at least sexually confused them, but many were as homophobic as they could get. What if he had just come out of a break up? Then he’d probably feel guilty to do anything. What if the age difference was too much?

Grantaire wasn’t very deterred by these things, but he waited anyway, content with spiralling fantasies off in his own mind. Then one day he’d seen one of the mums openly flirting with him at the school gates, his son squirming impatiently by his side, and although the man didn’t look like he was reciprocating, it wasn’t like he was pushing her away either. The picture clicked something in his mind, made him think _right_ , and just like that he’d decided to get into the guy’s pants.

-

“What’s his name?” Grantaire asks, pointing across the playground to where smoking hot dad is stood beside a miniature of himself, but with lighter hair and dressed in a rain coat, rather than work clothes. 

Beside him, on the bench, Aimee is also dressed in a rain coat, swinging her legs back and forth in front of her. The material’s red rather than the boy’s blue and it probably cost more than half of Grantaire’s wardrobe. Oh, how the other half lives.

At his words she looks up at him, distractedly. “Hmm?”

This time he nods in their direction. “The boy over there.”

“Oh,” She replies, following his direction while fiddling with the toggles on her coat. “His name’s Luc. Why?”

“I think I know his dad,” Grantaire lies easily, leaning back more against the bench and muffling a yawn into the palm of his hand. Grantaire had been working overtime at the supermarket, and though it meant it could pay off his standing debt in a matter of weeks, it was tiring. In between that and commissions, he feels exhausted. He’d had to have three cups of coffee that morning before he’d even made it out of the house.

Aimee perks up at that, looking at Grantaire brightly. “We should say hi!”

He barely catches her before she runs off to complete that sentiment. “Nah,” He tells her, pulling her up onto his lap and carefully tugging her hood over her head as the rain begins getting harder. He, himself, is dressed in nothing but skinny jeans, a shirt and a green hoodie he’d pulled on over his head on the way out of the door. The most protection he has from the rain is an old red beanie of Jehan’s he’d shoved on. Flecks of rain still catch in the wild mess of hair poking out from beneath the hat. “I just wanna check it’s him. Can you ask Luc his name for me?”

“Sure!”

Around five hours later he has a name.

“Combeferre,” Aimee tells him, after Grantaire reminds her about his question. “Luc says he’s a doctor.”

_A doctor_ , Grantaire thinks, followed shortly by, _shit._ Way out of his league, then. A further stretch than cute primary school teacher. Except, Grantaire can see Combeferre and Luc just across from them, Combeferre in conversation with another dad, and it doesn’t particularly make him want him _less_. All it really does is increase the urge to corrupt him more. 

“Is it him?” She asks, and Grantaire turns to her, grinning and patting down her fly away hair.

“Nope,” Grantaire smiles, holding out his hand for her to take. “My bad.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided I'm going to keep the chapters short so hopefully you'll get them quicker (-fingers crossed-), rather than putting up big chapters God knows when! Also I have no idea what these two are really doing, because I shot into this fic with the future planned and none of the how they get there. Hopefully it's not too out of character fffffff.

“So what extra curricular activities does your child partake in?” Grantaire asks after flopping down into the empty space beside Combeferre on the couch. Combeferre, who was watching his son across the playground, startles a little at Grantaire’s introduction and turns to him with a vaguely bewildered expression. 

Up close he’s even more attractive than Grantaire thought he could be. Settled beside him Grantaire can see the slightest hint of a stubble around his jaw and the evidence of a poor sleep schedule, with heavy bags beneath his eyes, which Grantaire presumes is a side effect of working as a doctor. 

“Isn’t this what you people do?” Grantaire gestures, waving offhandedly in the air, while next to him Combeferre looks at him, nonplussed. “Y’know get to know one another, invite each other to one another’s parties to talk about how _well_ your kid is doing, and then five or six years down the line you’re all best friends and talking about how the time has flown, and how much they’ve grown, and how your kid gets _such good grades_.”

“And what people would that be?” Combeferre asks him, slowly, like he wants Grantaire to clarify on the whole situation. Regarding Combeferre as an intelligent individual from the fact he would have a fucking _pHD_ Grantaire aims a look at him.

“Responsible parents.”

Combeferre’s look is measured, not void of its confusion but much less startled, and Grantaire doesn’t miss the slight hint of criticism in Combeferre’s tone when he says, “And what does that make you?”

Grantaire stares at him for a moment, letting the words, and their undertone sink in. The look quickly becomes incredulous. “Holy fuck, you think I’m Aimee’s dad?” Grantaire finally manages, but he’s grinning, laughter threaded through his words. Quickly, he looks up and around at the other parents congregating in their miniature cliques around them. “Wait, do the rest of them think that too? Christ, you judgemental assholes.”

Combeferre purses his lips at him, and returns, drily. “I hope you don’t use that language around your…” Then trails off, leaving Grantaire to fill in the blanks, which he does, still with a heightened level of disbelief.

“ _Sister_ , not the bastard child of my meandering, yet sex filled youth,” Grantaire informs him, leaning back against the bench and trying his best to smother a laugh. “And for your information, no. Fuck, what sort of uneducated miscreant do you take me for?”

Grantaire _thinks_ Combeferre’s expression turns apologetic, perhaps even with a hint of amusement, but he can’t be sure. Combeferre’s expression, like Grantaire thought it would be, is very steady, and doesn’t seem to give away anything it doesn’t want to. Grantaire could even call it guarded, in this instance, having seen Combeferre offer easy, heart-wrecking smiles to some of the other parents. Maybe to other people, this would be off putting, to Grantaire it only offers a _challenge_.

“An unfounded one, apparently,” Combeferre returns, with the slight dip of his head and an embedded apology. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

“I could have been Jesus, you know,” Grantaire informs him, pulling Jehan’s beanie off and ruffling a hand through his hair. “Then you would have really been in the shit.”

Combeferre lets out a surprised laugh, eyes lighting up, mouth in a grin and Grantaire almost grabs him then, almost fists a hand in his shirt and hisses in his ear, _I want to fuck you so bad_. “Lucky for me, then,” Combeferre says, the last of a smile lingering around his lips. 

Grantaire smirks, broadly, opening his mouth to say something when he gets interrupted with a loud call of his name. In an instant, he looks away to where Aimee is running across the playground to him, hands carefully cupped around one another.

“Hey,” He smiles, as she gets closer. “What have you got there?”

She grins back at him, gleefully, then holds out her hands to him and gently opens them. Grantaire grins down at her palms. “That is one old ladybird,” He tells her, pointing to the spots on its back. “Y’know it gets a spot for every year, right?”

“Yup,” Aimee grins happily, jostling her hands and pouting when the bug flies away, staring despondently after it. “Noo, come back.”

“That’s not actually true,” Combeferre interrupts, calmly after a moment. “The idea that ladybird’s get more spots the older they get is an urban myth, they actually have different amounts of spots because they’re different types of ladybird.”

Grantaire turns his head back at Combeferre, throwing him a look over his shoulder that Combeferre accepts without a blink of an eye. “Well,” He says, raising his eyebrows at Aimee. “Now you know.”

After she leaves, running back toward her friends, Grantaire turns back to Combeferre with another pointed look. “What do I look like, the ladybird expert?”

Combeferre retaliates with the slightest quirk of his lips and a shrug. “I’m holding back all assumptions,” He replies, and _shit_ , is that sarcasm? Surprised, Grantaire raises an eyebrow, but then the bell goes off and Combeferre’s standing with a cool “Nice to meet you”, before calling after his son.

-

“I didn’t learn your name yesterday,” says Combeferre as Grantaire flops down beside him on the bench. Grantaire had been hoping to speak to Combeferre yesterday after school, only his parents had called, demanding Aimee back early for some dinner or another, so he hadn’t had a chance. Luckily, this morning Combeferre was alone again at the bench, and Grantaire saw his opportunity.

“That’s correct,” Grantaire replies, after thinking on it for a second. The weather’s clearer today, still overcast but not threatening rain. It was at least enough of a good forecast for Grantaire not to bother bringing his beanie. Aimee, however, was still in her raincoat - _just incase_.

He does not give in to Combeferre’s expectant look, which Combeferre aims in his direction after Grantaire has spoken, and it’s a quiet waiting game until Combeferre finally sighs and asks, “What is it?”

“You have to earn it,” Grantaire says, impulsively, and it comes out with enough cocky confidence to not sound too utterly ridiculous. Combeferre, however, is looking pleasantly incredulous and equal parts amused, seemingly like he can’t decide between frowning or raising his eyebrows. 

“How, exactly?” Combeferre replies in a tentative manner, with both curiosity and the slightest undertone of exasperation. 

Grantaire shrugs, glancing at Combeferre’s once again expectant face. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Are you sure you don’t attend here?” Combeferre finally responds, his lips at an angle that could be something like a smirk, shaking his head at Grantaire’s grin. 

“Positive,” Grantaire affirms, with a crooked smile. “I just thrive off making people uncomfortable, obviously.”

Combeferre offers him a placid smile, tilting his head. “I’m not particularly uncomfortable,” He replies, and the reply sounds _so_ carefully considered to Grantaire’s ears. Grantaire wants to know what he’s really thinking. Probably something around the lines of _Who is this nutter?_ , but at least he hasn’t asked him to leave.

“Is that a challenge?” Grantaire counters, finally turning his fidgeting gaze away from the playground, and keeping tabs on Aimee, to look Combeferre directly in the eye. Up close he realises his eyes are dark, a hazel brown, intense and measured in a way that makes Grantaire want to look away again. He doesn’t though, all about proving his point.

“No,” Combeferre replies, slowly and with an edge of finality. Grantaire almost feels… disappointed. 

“Shame, I’m sure I could ruffle the feathers under that one hundred and something pound coat,” Grantaire says, gesturing toward him while still holding his gaze.

Combeferre quirks an eyebrow. “Snobbery?” Is all Combeferre says, and when Grantaire only answers with a shrug he adds, “I thought you didn’t like assumptions.” In a way which is disconcertingly _not_ patronising. It comes out prompting instead, intrigued. 

Grantaire eyes become harder without realising it, and he rolls his eyes before sitting back and looking out toward where his sister is playing. “Who fucking does? But that doesn’t mean I don’t expect them to happen. We are all, after all, just a product of our prejudices and hypocrisies. Everyone is a judgemental asshole or will flourish into a judgemental asshole.”

“Even you?” Combeferre asks, and Grantaire can feel him regarding Grantaire without even having to look. “Even your sister?”

Grantaire makes a face, glancing in his direction. “Of course, Christ. Even your little Luc. Even _you_ ,” At that Grantaire smirks, leaning his elbows on his knees and propping his head in his hand as he looks at Combeferre. “I bet you think you have me all figured out in your head.”

“I told you, I’m holding back all assumptions,” Combeferre answers easily, in a way which Grantaire wouldn’t call skirting around the subject.

Grantaire returns with, “That doesn’t mean you haven’t already made them.” Combeferre’s smile unfurls slowly at that, so very real. _Fuck_ , Grantaire thinks, _he could have anyone he wanted._ Then he beams at him, sitting back and shoving back his hair from his face. “Try me.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Why?” Grantaire asks, tilting his head. “Afraid you’d get it wrong? Afraid you’d get it _right_ , even? Hurt my feelings, maybe? I’m a walking fucking cliche, there’s not much to guess.”

“Still,” Combeferre replies, quietly, regarding Grantaire with a look that he can’t read. 

“You’re no fun,” Is what Grantaire says when Aimee runs over to him and tries to drag him into a game of Duck Duck Goose.


End file.
